V
DRAMATIC NOT IN THE DRAMA
THE CONFESSIONAL
ANONYMOUS
'Twas twilight, and the early lighted lamps
Were flickering down into the Arno's tide
While yet the daylight lingered in the skies,
Silvering and paling, when I saw him first.
I was returning from my work, and paused
Upon the bridge of Santa Trinita
To rest, and think how fair our Florence is.
And I remember, o'er the hazy hills,
Far, far away, how exquisitely fair
The twilight seemed that night. My heart was soft
With tender longings, misted with a dim,
Sad pleasure as a mirror with the breath.
Ah, never will those feelings come again!
I was in a mood to take a stamp
From any passing chance, even like those clouds
That caught the tenderest thrill of dying day,
When, by some inward sense, I know not what,
I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away
By eyes that had a strange magnetic will.
And so I turned from those far hills to see--
A stranger? No; even then he did not seem
A stranger, but as one I once had known,
Not here in Florence, not in any place,
But somewhere in my spirit known and seen.
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